Spaces
by nanaa127
Summary: Friends are supposed to be there for each other, especially when one of the lands in the hospital after being caught in a series of explosions. Tag for S1E6.
1. Chapter 1

A flash of panic somehow managed to claw its way to the forefront of his mangled thoughts as he soared through the air. _Did I jump far enough?_ He wasn't entirely sure he had, but it became a moot point soon enough.

His free fall was rudely interrupted when he crashed into an unforgiving surface. Matt was now sure that he'd missed the river entirely and had actually belly flopped onto the concrete sidewalk below, because there was no way landing in water could hurt so much. It was a thumping, full-body shock that served as a loud counterpoint to all the other sharp pains that were scattered across his skin. Fortunately, he didn't have deal with it for long as consciousness fled the moment after he hit. Unfortunately, he snapped back a few seconds later when the dirty mix of water, toxic chemicals and sewage that called itself the Hudson River flowed into his mouth and sprayed into his lungs.

His limbs flailed jerkily as he struggled to find the surface. Matt disliked being underwater, disliked the way it threw off his hypersensitive awareness, especially when his senses were already going haywire from... _from getting your dumb ass handed to you,_ Stick helpfully supplied. Matt had to reluctantly confess that he probably bit off more than he could chew, but he sure as hell wasn't going to admit that to phantom Stick. Not while he was on the verge of drowning and/or bleeding to death. Not ever, really. Not that he needed to. Stick would already know.

Soon enough, his head breached the surface and he gasped, sucking in a lungful of clean-ish air. It was sweet and life-giving and also set off a coughing fit that nearly sent him back under, both literally and figuratively. Matt splashed around gracelessly before finally wrangling his arms and legs into a semblance of coordinated motion that directed him towards the sounds of the city. The strong smell of copper and sludge that rose up from the river urged him on despite the increasing sluggishness that crept over him. Water kept splashing into his mouth as he chugged along, and he was forced to waste precious breaths spitting it out. By the time his fingers bumped into the wooden posts of the docks, Matt had made a vow to never go swimming again. It wasn't much of a vow, since he could count the number of times he'd voluntarily gone swimming on one hand and still have several fingers left over, but it made him feel a bit better.

Hauling himself up out of the river took the type of effort that made his mind blank out, and when Matt came to he found that he was flat on his back on the wooden pier, shivering uncontrollably while his lungs pumped for air. The quivering that seized his muscles pulled at the edges of the lacerations Nobu had carved into his body, none worse than the deep pit of red agony that was consuming his side. He could feel blood dribbling out of the wound, had unwanted, intimate knowledge of each hot drop that soaked into this black shirt and smeared over his icy skin. With a groan, he pressed one shaking hand over the ragged wound, silently commanding his blood to stop and clot. It didn't listen.

 _Are you going to lie there all night?_ The impatient sneer in phantom Stick's voice was impossible to miss.

"It..." Matt groaned. "It..." The words stuck in his throat and refused to come out.

 _It what? Spit it out, kid._

Not surprisingly, Stick was a pain in the ass even when he was nothing more than a figment of Matt's fading imagination. Nonetheless, he couldn't resist the impulse to obey. "It hurts."

 _Well, you've been sliced to shit. What did you expect?_

"I don't know," he whispered. It was a stupid answer, but he couldn't corral his thoughts to come up with anything better.

 _Get up, kid. You're not going to let my training go to waste by bleeding out on a filthy dock._

Matt grunted in response and tried to shut out Stick's insistent voice. He didn't owe the old bastard anything. Did he?

 _Get up. Get up, right now. GET UP._

 _Back off, asshole._ A new, achingly familiar voice joined the unwanted one that was yelling at him and Matt gasped as a vice clamped down around his chest. "Dad?"

 _Hey yeah, Matty. It's me. It's been a while, huh?_ Jack sounded sheepish, as if he was a bit embarrassed about being murdered on the street and leaving behind his only child. _What have you gotten yourself into?_

Matt turned his head, reaching out to try and locate his dad. He was suddenly desperate for Jack's comforting, solid presence again but couldn't seem to find him. "Where...?"

 _I'm right here. I know you can't see me, but I'm here, okay?_

"Oh. Okay." Of course. He vaguely understood that he was alone and was probably in trouble considering he was conversing with hallucinated voices, but disappointment washed over him anyway.

 _You're not going to be alone for long if you don't haul your sorry ass up and start moving. So as I was saying - GET UP._

 _I hate to agree with the old bastard, but you need to move. They'll find you if you don't go now._

At Jack's urging, Matt inhaled deeply and forced his exhausted body to move. With one hand tightly clamped over his side, he pushed himself upright with the other arm and immediately regretted the decision to do so. An agonized moan slid past his lips as the movement pulled intolerably at the hole that had been ripped into his belly. The renewed cacophony of pain was enough to send him crashing back down to the slick wooden planks.

"I can't. I can't..." Pain was not new to Matt. He knew that every time he put on the mask, punishment would be coming, both for himself and for his prey. Since taking up his mission, Matt had been beaten with fists, feet, sticks, crowbars. He'd fallen off buildings and been thrown into walls and furniture. He'd been stabbed and thrown in a dumpster, for God's sake. He thought that he knew what pain was, thought that he could master it since it was practically a part of his DNA. He was wrong. The burning rage that had sustained him was now cooled, and without it, he was lost.

 _Yes, you can. You're a Murdock. That means that you're going to get on your feet and start walking._ His dad's voice was firm and insistent. _I know you can do this, Matty. You have to._

The soft slapping sound of patent leather oxfords striking concrete was growing louder. There were four men perhaps two blocks away, all armed with high caliber pistols that would tear him apart. With another groan, Matt pulled together the chopped up bits of himself and had a second go. This time, he was better prepared and somehow managed to stagger to his feet without vomiting or fainting. His chest heaved as if he'd sprinted the length of Manhattan and the fiery world around him tilted as he took one jerky step forward, then another.

 _Christ, that took long enough. You've gotten soft, kid._

 _Soft? You gotta be kidding me. He's half-dead, and who's fault is that, huh? Screw you and that damn war of yours._

"Stop," Matt panted as he stumbled towards the shadows. He was in no condition to take to the rooftops, so he pressed himself against the walls and lurched away from the docks, praying that he wasn't leaving any sort of blood trail.

Predictably, phantom Stick ignored him and scoffed. _Don't blame this on me. He developed that obsession with Fisk all by himself._

"Not an obsession," Matt argued weakly. "Needs...needs to be stopped."

Phantom Jack ignored him as well. _He could have gone about this another way, without using his fists. God gave him brains for a reason. I never wanted this for him._

"I tried, dad. I did. It just wasn't enough." Matt paused, pressing his forehead against the rough brick. Nothing he did was enough. Fisk was winning, and he was so damn tired.

 _Well then, it's too bad you got yourself killed and left Matty alone. Dead men don't get much of a say in how the living go about their business. Who said you could stop moving?_

Matt swayed and staggered back into motion.

 _It's not like I wanted to leave him. I'm so sorry, Matty._

 _Oh really? Don't tell me you didn't know what would happen when you copped out of the fix. You knew, and you did it anyway. You even prepared for it, for Christ's sake. Was your moment of pride worth it?_

 _You're one to talk, pal. You left him too._ Anger seeped through Jack's voice.

 _Yeah_ , _I did. But I did it for his own good, and managed not to stick him with a massive guilt complex as a parting gift._

 _You're an idiot if that's what you think._

His mind lapsed into silence and Matt breathed a short sigh of relief as he trudged along. He was cold, and growing colder by the minute. Whether it was due to his impromptu dip in the Hudson or the steady stream of blood still escaping from his body was unclear. He had briefly thought about going to Claire's place, but it was too far. He really didn't relish the idea of some stranger finding him unconscious in the street, as he doubted he'd get lucky twice. Instead, he allowed his instincts to direct him to his own flat. _Home. I need to go home._

Matt didn't know how long it took for him to finally stagger back to his building, but he did know exactly how many excruciating steps it took for him to climb up to the roof and then back down into his apartment. By the time he was inside, he was shaking so hard that he feared he would fly apart at the seams. Matt fumbled his way into the bedroom, fully intending on passing out on his bed after dialing Claire, but whatever reprieve he thought he had earned by finally making it home was immediately crushed by the beautifully, terribly familiar voice that began yelling outside his door.

"Maaaatt? Come on, Matt. I need to talk to you, Matt."

 _Your friend has got some really crappy timing._

Matt could tell from the way Foggy was dragging his vowels that his friend was very, very drunk. That, and the fact that Foggy smelled like he'd been pickled in whiskey.

"We need to keep going, Matt. We gotta nail that bastard to the wall. We gotta make him pay, for Elena. For everything."

The anguish coloring Foggy's voice cut through the hazy wool blanket that wrapped around his brain. His heart jumped and skipped a beat when he thought about Mrs. Cardenas, about the pain in Karen and Foggy's voices when they went to ID Elena's corpse. He'd failed to stop Fisk, failed to rid his city of a monster. Matt couldn't find the will to face his friend after such a letdown. All he wanted was to burrow into a deep hole and hide from the world until he could take another shot at Fisk. Matt took another step towards his bed, praying that Foggy would simply disappear, when the abused muscles in his leg finally gave out. He stumbled and then collapsed, hitting the wall and then toppling over the nightstand. His mouth opened in a silent cry as he fell against his bed, fiery agony shorting out his senses.

"Matt, are you okay in there? Matt? Matt!"

 _You'll have to go someplace else to hold up, kid. He can't find you here like this._

 _Are you crazy? Matt's going to die if he doesn't get help soon. Is that what you want?_

 _No, I don't. But do you have any idea what will happen if that loud drunk guy finds Matt in here, decked out in his hero costume?_

 _Yeah, I do. He'll call for help and make sure my kid doesn't die._

"Matt? It's me. I heard a crash. Not the fun, sexy-time kind. More of the 'I've fallen and can't get up' variety."

Matt groaned when he realized that he hadn't locked the roof access door. Foggy was slowly creeping down the stairs, slicked with beads of nervous, alcohol-laden sweat.

 _Sure, he might do that. He might also destroy Matt's life by outing him as the vigilante running around Hell's Kitchen. How long do you think your kid will last once Fisk finds out who he is?_

"No," Matt whispered. Foggy wouldn't do that to him. Would he? He really did not want to find out.

 _This is why you can't be close to people. It makes for too many loose ends. Better to be alone, and free to do what you need to do without worrying about anyone else._

 _Seriously? That is the worst advice I ever heard. Matty, you listen to me. Do you trust this Foggy guy?_

Yes. He trusted Foggy as much as he trusted anyone in his life, but he wasn't sure he could trust Foggy with this. Not after so many lies of omission, and just straight up lies. There was too much at stake.

 _You need to go out there and let him know you're here, and that you're hurt. Survive this, Matty. Then you can worry about everything else, okay? Live first._

"Matt?"

 _That's a bad idea, kid. I can already tell you Foggy's not going to take it well. And what the hell kind of a name is Foggy?_

 _That's not going to matter if he's dead. Matty, look at this way - if you die tonight, your friend will find out anyway. Please, Matt. Please. You need help now._

"If anyone's in here who's not supposed to be, I will mess you up. I'm not kidding!"

Matt exhaled slowly as he forced his quaking body upright. The pain was beginning to recede, flowing away from him on an icy tide which left him numb and completely drained. If possible, he would have protected Foggy from his inner devil forever. But dying now would mean leaving people like Foggy and Karen, people like Elena and Claire, at Fisk's mercy. That simply wasn't an option.

His feet had become replaced with lead bricks at some point during the night, and Matt found that each step forward was impossibly harder than the last. He haltingly walked towards the cloud of Foggy that was standing nervously in his living room, clutching at his cane with white-knuckled hands.

"Where's Matt? What did you do to him?"

 _It's me,_ Matt wanted to say. _I'm so sorry, Foggy. I never wanted to put this on you._ The words never made it out of his mouth, however. Matt finally toppled off the razor's edge upon which he'd been perched, and tumbled down into true darkness. As he fell, he could only hope that Foggy would understand and forgive him.

* * *

 _Hello! So, as usual, I have discovered the awesomeness of Daredevil (the show, not the comics) years after everyone else, and have just made my way through S1. I know it's old news by now, but I decided to write down what will hopefully be a collection of tags and scene fills before moving onto S2. I know these themes have probably been covered many times over, but I hope it wasn't too tedious a read. This is also my first fic for DD, so my apologies if the voices are quite right yet... Anyway, thank you so much for reading!_

 _Disclaimer: This was written for fun, not money. None of the recognizable characters are mine._


	2. Chapter 2

_"Matt, it's me. We're at the hospital. There's some muy crazy shit going on out there, so call me and let me know you're okay, okay?"_

 _"Hey, it's Karen. We're at Metro-General. We brought Mrs. Cardenas in because she was hurt, but Foggy is hurt too. Can you please call me? We're worried about you."_

 _"Matt. Dude. The city is exploding. You need to call me, buddy. Like, NOW."_

 _"Hi Matt. Please, please call me. I don't know what's going on out there, but we just want to know that you're safe. Foggy's getting seen to now. Please, call me back."_

 _"Matt, please call me. I can't... I really need to hear from you. I'm sure that you're just fine, so please, let us know. Foggy could really use your support right now. So could I."_

 _"Matt. MATT. I swear to God, you'd better have some really good excuse lined up. CALL ME BACK."_

 _"Matt, it's Karen. Again. Uh, where are you? Would you please just give us a call when you get this?"_

 _"Matt, it's Foggy. Where are you, buddy? Karen is really worried, and I don't think anyone wants to see me running around with my ass hanging of this hospital gown while I look for my blind friend who might have been killed in a damn war zone. Please, for the love of God. Call us."_

 _"Please just call us. We just want to make sure that you're not...you're not lying in a body bag somewhere, you know?"_

 _"I wasn't kidding about the hospital gown thing, Matt. As soon as I can stand without feeling like I'm going to pass out, I'm coming after you. Hang tight."_

Matt wanted to sleep, knew that he probably should. It would give his bruised and battered body a chance to heal, give his mind a chance to clear. After stripping off his dusty gear, however, he sat on the edge of his bed, his muscles tense and his mind running around in circles, infinitely chasing after one name. _Fisk._ Matt's fists clenched. He now had proof that Fisk was just a man, rather than some malevolent force slithering in the dark. He could deal with a bad man. He did it all the time. He just needed to figure out _how._

With a stifled groan, he reached for his phone. It was chirping at regular intervals, reminding him that there were voicemails that needed attention. He supposed he could have left it until morning, but a the moment, he needed a distraction, and anything would do. There were ten messages from both Foggy and Karen that had been recorded in the past few hours. Matt didn't get any further than the second one, when the words "Foggy" and "hurt" were tied together by Karen's tremulous voice.

"Oh God," Matt breathed. His phone slipped from his hands as he wrenched himself to his feet. Suddenly, the lives of the Man in Black and Matt Murdock collided jarringly and he found that he wasn't alone in the middle. The anger abruptly drained from him and he was quickly refilled with guilt-tainted fear. He needed to move.

He shoved his feet into his shoes before realizing that he wasn't wearing pants, and then struggled to pull his sweats up over his sneakers since taking them off seemed like too big a chore. A hastily zipped hoodie ensured that he was fit to be seen in public and he ran out the door and onto the streets. Metro-General was perhaps fifteen blocks from his flat, and the slap-slap-slap of his rubber soles against the concrete accompanied the thundering beat of his heart and the painful creak of cracked ribs as his lungs expanded and contracted. It wasn't until he reached the hospital that he realized he'd left his cane, glasses and phone behind. _Stupid._

The hospital was sheer chaos. Rapid-fire instructions from nurses and doctors, screams and moans of pain from the people unlucky enough to be caught in the explosions, shouts from worried family members. The sharp smell of antiseptic, the coppery tang of blood and sour spill of vomit. The aftermath of Fisk's destruction smacked him in the face with the force of a tidal wave and he staggered to a stop as soon as he burst through the doors. Matt stood amongst the turmoil, tilting his head this way and that, sore chest heaving as he tried to catch the familiar sound of Foggy's heartbeat through the pandemonium. He stretched and strained, and he thought he had it before it slithered through his metaphorical fingers.

Matt stepped forward, one step, then another. Someone was walking straight towards him and he didn't bother to move aside, allowing the person to run right into him. "'Scuse me," the nurse said, continuing on past him without bothering to look back.

"Ah, excuse me? Nurse?"

"What?" Her harried voice filtered back towards him. He could tell that she'd been on her feet for about eighteen hours already, and that her blood sugar was dipping low. She hadn't stopped walking, so Matt chased after her.

"Could I please - "

"Are you in need of immediate medical attention?"

"Um..." It occurred to Matt that this could be the one time he could receive proper medical care for his injuries, in an actual hospital, without anyone asking questions as to why a blind man was covered and bruises and carrying multiple fractures. He brushed the thought away. What was the point? He could tape himself up just as well.

"If not, then you will have to see the nurse at the desk so you can be triaged."

There were ten heartbeats that were already queued in front of the check-in desk. "Well, I'm actually - "

"Sir, we are very busy tonight. Go sit and wait." She continued on and barged through the doors that were marked "Restricted Area". Matt blithely followed her in. It was one of the perks of being blind, and he had no qualms about taking full advantage.

He carefully picked his way through the beds, weaving through the steady stream of personnel scurrying to and fro. _Come on, Foggy. I know you're in here._ The clamoring need to see his friend and to make sure that he was still alive and kicking grew stronger with each passing minute.

"Matt? Oh, shit." Claire's voice cut through the disarray and she grabbed his arm, leading him towards an empty chair. She pushed him into it, her heart rate skyrocketing as she ran her hands over him to check for injuries. "How bad is it?" she demanded, her voice harsh with a dangerous mix of exhaustion and adrenaline.

"No, Claire, I'm fine." He sucked in a startled, pained breath as her roaming touch found one of the weak spots in his ribs.

"Fine, huh?" She continued her exploration, unzipping his hoodie and making an exasperated noise at the spectacular bruising she found underneath. "This doesn't look 'fine'." Despite her words, there was profound relief in Claire's voice when she didn't uncover any gaping, life-threatening wounds.

"It is. Or it will be. I've had worse." He gently pushed her hands away and zipped himself back up.

"Don't I know it," Claire muttered. "My God, Matt. You scared the hell out of me. I really didn't want to know how bad things had to be for you to actually show up at a hospital for help."

"I'm not here for me," he assured her.

"Of course not." There was that exasperation again. "I'd feel better if I could examine those bruises more carefully. They look really deep."

"I'm fine," Matt repeated. "No internal bleeding, if that's what you're worried about."

Claire huffed. "Right. And you can tell because of your supersonic hearing?"

"Pretty much. I'd be able to feel it too, if there was."

"Jesus. I'm not going to ask how you know that," she replied darkly.

Matt shrugged. The memory of Karen's voicemail prodded him, urging him to cut off the conversation. "I got a message that my friend was here."

Claire sighed as she pulled off her nitrile gloves. "Half of Hell's Kitchen is here tonight. Name?"

"Foggy, ah, Franklin Nelson."

"I'll see what I can find." Claire bent down towards him, placing a light hand on his shoulder. "Hey," she said softly. "What happened with that Russian guy?"

Matt's jaw clenched. "He's dead."

Claire nodded grimly. "Did you get what you needed from him?"

"I'll find out soon enough."

There was a beat of silence before Claire said, "Let me try find out where your friend is. Stay put."

As the echo of Claire's footsteps faded around a turn in the corridor, Matt reached out again, seeking Foggy's heartbeat. His focus just wasn't there; he was letting too much in, and not able to filter enough out. Sirens approached the ambulance bay doors and his efforts were drowned out once more by the infuriating sounds of his city in pain. For once, he wished it would quiet down so that he could hear what was important.

"Hey, I think I found him." Claire was back.

"Where is he?"

"There's a Franklin Nelson on the third floor, in the general ward. Bed four. Look, I'd take you up there but there's a fresh round of patients coming in. Can you find it?"

He nodded. He would find it, no question. "Thank you, Claire."

"Take care of yourself, Matt," she said and then she was gone, swallowed by the chaos once more.

Getting to the third floor was easy enough. He had taken two steps from the elevator when another familiar voice assaulted him.

"Matt? Oh thank God!" There was the clickity-clack of heels on linoleum flooring, and then a slender pair of arms wrapped around him, drawing him in close and squeezing tightly. The fresh, vaguely floral scents of Karen's soap and shampoo, the cool, chemical smell of her laundry detergent and a tinge of stressed, salty sweat enveloped him in a cloud that was uniquely hers. Matt hugged her back, disregarding the strain on his ribs, and the tight muscles in his back and shoulders began to relax. "Where have you been? We've been trying to reach you all night!"

"Ah...sorry," Matt said sheepishly, slipping easily into the role of Matt Murdock, mild Catholic lawyer. "Are you alright?"

"I am." Karen released him and held him arm's length and inhaled sharply. "Are _you_ okay? What happened to you? Should I find a doctor?" The questions were fired at him rapidly, powered by her nervous anxiety.

"No, no, I'm fine. Where's Foggy? How's he doing?"

"He's good. Or he will be." Karen guided his hand to her arm and began to lead him down the corridor. "The doctors said the glass didn't penetrate too deeply, so the laceration just needed a few stitches. He was pretty lucky. Considering how crowded it is they'll probably release him soon."

Matt blew out a long breath of relief and rubbed his hand across his forehead. "That's...that's great. I'm really glad to hear that."

"Yeah." Karen lay a hand over his. "We were really worried about you."

"I know. Sorry," he repeated. "And thank you, Karen, for being there for Foggy."

"Of course. That's what friends are for, right?"

Matt knew that Karen was simply stating a truth rather than passing any judgement, but he felt a sharp sting of guilt nonetheless. "Right."

"It's a mess out there, huh?"

"It is," Matt replied shortly, and didn't bother to elaborate. The simmering, ever-present rage was bubbling too close to the surface, and he knew that the devil's fury over Fisk's audacity would spill over into his everyday life if the line of conversation continued.

Karen, astute as ever, took the hint. "I'm glad you're here, Matt. Foggy's going to to be really happy to see you."

As it turned out, 'happy' was not really the major emotion Foggy exhibited when he and Karen finally approached his bed. "Holy shit, Matt. Did someone hit you in the face with a brick wall?"

Matt gently probed his own face with his fingertips, tracing the heated swelling that decorated his right cheekbone and jaw. "Um, it was actually a concrete floor."

"What?" Foggy's voice went from incredulous to concerned in zero to sixty. "You weren't caught in one of those explosions too, were you?

"I was, ah, taking a walk. Ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess." It was close enough to the truth.

"Are you okay?"

Matt stifled a sigh and wondered exactly how beat up he looked. He thought about the fall he and Vladimir had taken, courtesy of the Russian's stubborn stupidity, and had to admit that it was probably pretty bad. He shuffled forward and perched himself on the edge of Foggy's stiff mattress. "Yes. I'm not the one lying in the hospital bed."

"And yet somehow, I'm pretty sure I look better than you do. Seriously, Matt. You look terrible."

"Thanks," Matt said dryly. "I'll take your word for it."

"Anyway, where were you, man? We called you like a hundred times!"

"Two hundred, actually," Karen interjected.

"I stand corrected," Foggy followed up.

Matt huffed out a short, apologetic laugh. "Yeah, sorry about that. I didn't have my phone on me."

"I swear to God, Matt, I am going to superglue that thing to your hand. While I'm at it, I'm also going to rig it so you can never turn it off. How is it you always forget your phone? What is the point of even owning the damn thing if you never have it when you need it?"

"Well, it wasn't like I expected explosions to go off when I went out," Matt replied defensively.

"Honestly, who does?" Karen asked. She had taken the hard plastic chair by Foggy's bed.

"Obviously no one that lives here, but that's not the point," Foggy argued. "The emergency doesn't have to be Hell's Kitchen turning into a scene from 'Escape from New York'. What if you'd been hit by a car? Or a falling piano? Or...I don't know, been caught in a flash mob? Do they even have those anymore?"

"I don't know, but if I don't think I'd survive that," Matt conceded.

"What if Foggy had been really badly hurt?" Karen asked softly. "You'd have no way of knowing."

Matt inhaled deeply, welcoming the stabbing pain that danced across his chest. "I know, Karen. I'm sorry." He meant it, deeply and sincerely, but it still sounded cheap. "I should have been here." Foggy was the closest thing he had to family. He knew it, Foggy knew it, hell, anyone that had every met the two of them knew it. Matt didn't have a ton of experience with family, but he was pretty sure that being present during medical emergencies was a thing that was pretty high on the must-do list.

 _Jesus, kid. And what would you have done if had been here? Held his hand and wiped his brow? Keep your eyes on the big picture, Matty._

He had to stop Fisk. Matt's fists clenched around the coarse bedsheets. It was the only way to prevent things like this from happening again. It was the only way to truly keep his friends safe, the only way to protect the city from being trampled by one man's unchecked power. Fisk's money could buy a lot of things, but Matt took satisfaction in knowing that it wasn't going to buy him any peace. Not from the masked man, anyway.

"Well, you're here now," Foggy said contentedly. "I'm glad you're safe, buddy."

"You too," Matt returned. He might be a disappointing friend, but he wasn't going to be a disappointing protector.

* * *

 _So, I was kind of disappointed by Matt's jokey response to Foggy being hurt in those explosions, so this is me making up for that. And who knows? We don't know what he did after he left those tunnels... Thanks for reading!_


End file.
